The Past that Haunts Us
by mortenavida
Summary: He couldn't handle it when his first daughter received a Hogwart's letter. He hadn't noticed the signs, hadn't seen her freakish nature. He's turned his back and left them and hasn't looked back since. At least, not until a very stubborn squib shows up in his class.


He's forty-five when life catches up to him on a bleak September morning. He's run for so many years that it almost takes him by surprise when, just as he is leaving for work, his cell comes to life and an old, familiar number pops up on the screen. There is no music to the call, simply the shaking vibration that he has come to enjoy. It isn't like he wants excess noise around him; he gets enough from the noises on the Uni lawns.

Still, the name on the screen has apparently come back to haunt him. He answers it after a moment and puts the device up to his ear. He doesn't need to say anything as he knows that she will say her piece and hang up.

"I put our youngest on the train this morning," she says. "I know you don't care because you're too self-absorbed in your _normal_ life, but I thought you should know." She hesitates and he closes his eyes, not wanting to hear what he knows she will say. "I wish you could care. They miss you."

The line falls silent and he pulls his cell back enough to see the flashing numbers indicating the length of the call. Just a few short minutes, but he wishes that they were longer. He wishes he could say something to right the situation he ruined nearly a decade ago.

His youngest is now eleven, and has no memory of him. He walked out on his family almost a decade ago and has yet to look back. He wants to look back.

He drops the cell back into his pocket and locks the door to his flat, forcing his mind off of his long-forgotten family and onto things that were important now. Things such as how to yet again get a group of new Uni students to understand and care about the importance of communication within their own, native tongue. Most of them are too stuck on their mobile devices to care much, though he does enjoy the few that always like to make his classes interesting.

He does not think much on his walk to the campus, umbrella dangling over the forearm that also holds his required reading. His other hand rests uselessly in his pocket, wrapped around the cell he knows will never show him that name again. There is no more reason for her to call him, no more reason for her to pretend that she has a duty to inform him of things.

He misses his little girls more than he can handle, and that is why he ignores it.

His student list sits on his desk in his office and he settles his things before picking it up. He likes to see who is repeating his class from the semesters before, as there is always one; surprisingly this class is all new. He tosses the list to the side and takes a seat in the uncomfortable chair, rubbing his eyes. He is almost done with preparing, and he really does not even need to do it in his office, but it is better than sitting at home and staring into an empty space.

Time passes and he loses track of when he should have gone to eat. A knock and the opening of his office door pulls him out of the small trace he seemed to be in. He pulls his reading glasses off to smile at the student stepping shyly into the room.

"Hello," he says, motioning to the chair across from his desk. "Can I help you?"

"Professor, ah..." He runs a hand through his fire red hair. "My name is James Lovegood. I'm in your class this semester?"

"What can I do for you, James?" He puts his glasses back on and looks down at the schedule he was revising. "Please, sit. I'm just finishing up here."

The boy sits, books perched in his lap. "I just wanted to meet you."

"You would have met me on the first day of classes, Mister Lovegood." He looks to the boy and arches an eyebrow. "Right?"

"Yes, but..." James looks down at his lap, fingers brushing over one of the notebooks. "My dad spoke about you a lot before he died. I just wanted to meet you before classes began."

"Your dad?" He frowns, leaning back now in his chair. He had no girl friends growing up, so he isn't sure whose kid this could be. "And who was your father?"

"Harry Potter, sir."

He feels his heart constrict in his chest. "He's dead?"

"Yes, sir. About eight years ago, he and my mum went on holiday. There was an accident and, well..." James shrugs. "My brother and sister and I went to a family friend. Albus still carries dad's name, but I had mine changed when I came to this world."

"Are you here simply to drag up my past?" He scowls and stands before pointing to the door. "Out right now, Mister Lovegood. And don't come back."

James doesn't move from his seat. "I just wanted to meet the man my dad spoke so highly about."

"That's a bloody lie."

"I don't lie. I don't see a point." James looks back down at his hands. "And just to clarify, I'm not here to cause you pain. I saw your name and took a chance that it was you, so I signed up for the class."

"People like you have no place in our systems."

James wrinkles his nose before standing, notebooks clutched against his chest. "People like me? Sir, I can't do magic. I'm a squib."

He can do nothing as James finally walks out of the office, leaving him in the silence of the room.

* * *

He ignores James in class as much as he can. He passes right by the boy even if his hand is the only one that raises in the room. He knows the other students notice, and he knows that they ask James questions, but he refuses to think about it. It is just one semester, a few months, and he can go back to how things should be.

He can only ignore James for two weeks before the boy is back in the doorway of his office, his first paper held tight in his hand. He had just returned them that morning and he sighs, motioning James in.

"What is it?" he asks, making sure to sound harsher than he feels.

"Did you even read this?"

He doesn't even remember what the paper is about. "Of course I did."

"I highly doubt that, sir." James comes forward to slam the paper down on the desk. "Considering I wrote about how your lack of communication with me is affecting my ability to know my father more, and you did nothing more than mark it off as, what was it... 'Lackluster approach to the intelligent formation of grammatically correct sentences'?"

"Was I correct?"

"It doesn't matter!" James leans across the desk. "Come with me."

The request takes him off guard and he can just sit there, blinking stupidly at James.

James holds out his hand. "Come with me, Professor. I know you don't have any more classes and I want to take you somewhere."

"This is highly inappropriate," he insists.

"We're family."

He can't argue that, but he ignores the hand. "I'm busy. Please take your paper and rewrite it like I asked you to."

"No."

"I have no problem failing you, Lovegood."

James lets out a huff and sits down. "Fine. One new paper, coming up."

He watches as James pulls out a pen and some paper. "What are you doing?"

"The assignment." James writes, eyes focused on the paper as he scribbles out his essay.

* * *

There is no getting rid of him after that. James is always around, trying to get him to talk by asking mundane questions mixed with intelligent insight into the actual subject he teaches. He finds himself even answering a few of the questions, though so far they are innocent enough that he doesn't mind.

He finds himself waiting for the moments in his office when James sits on the edge of his chair and asks his questions. During the times when James has other classes, he finds the silence unnerving and almost constricting.

After a few weeks of the routine, he has to hide the smile that comes to his face when he hears the now-familiar knock on his door.

* * *

November comes to an end when James broaches the subject again of wanting to take him somewhere. This time, he accepts and puts on his jacket and scarf. James waits for him, handing him his umbrella as soon as his gloves are on. He nods his thanks and, as soon as James wraps a familiar red and gold scarf around his own neck, they are walking out of the building.

James gives him no indication as to where they are going, and he doesn't ask for clarification. He isn't sure he wants to know their final destination, but he sits beside his nephew on the bus silently, watching the scenery slip by them. James offers no conversation to fill the silence, but he finds that he doesn't need it. It is comfortable in a way he never thought he would be with someone of his cousin's kind.

James gets up when the bus travels to the end of its route. Still without a word, they move to the waiting cabs. James selects one seemingly at random, and he simply slides in after his nephew.

"Why not take a cab from the start?" he asks once they are back on the road.

"This is a special cab," is all James says.

He tries not to focus on a subtly moving picture attached to the dash. "Why not call it to us?"

He shrugs and leans his head against the window. They don't say another word.

The length of time they have been gone is lost to him by the time they arrive at a cemetery. He suddenly wants nothing more than to turn around, but he can't. He forces himself out of the cab and follows his nephew through the various stones.

As they pass by a third weeping angel, he is glad he does not invest as much time in television as some of his students do. He suppresses a shiver anyway and hurries to catch up to James, who looks down at a plain stone in the ground.

Harry's grave is simple and he feels insulted on the behalf of his cousin for the plain stone that marks where he and a woman lie. He stares down at the standard gray stone, the name lopsided inside it, and takes a deep breath. Grass tries to creep over it and he is angry, bending down to roughly push it away. He doesn't understand why James would take him here, and he can vaguely hear himself demanding answers as he cleans the stone as best he can.

"Dad wanted things simple," is all James gives.

He knows that his nephew speaks the truth, but he feels as though this is still wrong. His cousin deserves to be remembered by all who pass.

"There were already a few statues or shrines to him in the other world," James continues. "Dad's last wish was to be buried like a normal Muggle, and Mum requested the same because she wanted to stay beside him even in death."

"Why would you take me here?" he asks, not getting up from his position despite the grass stains on his trousers.

"Dad wrote me a letter and said his biggest regret was never making things up to you."

He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. His cousin is not supposed to have these feelings. The fearless boy who stood up to his Aunt and Uncle and monsters was not supposed to regret anything in his life.

He is angry now. He stands and kicks dirt at the freshly-cleaned stone. "You wanker!" he yells, digging his shoe in a bit to try and get more dirt up. "You bloody coward!"

"Woah, hold on!"

"I worried for you!" He doesn't hear James. "I tried to catch a bloody owl to send you a letter! Mum was _furious_ Dad kicked me out for that! I had to _beg_ them to let me come home!"

His leg catches, but he barely notices as he falls to his knees. His gloved hands dig into the earth and, for a moment, he thinks it is raining because his face is wet.

A hand covers his face and his head is pulled against James' soft jacket. He tries to stop his tears, but finds that he can't.

* * *

"Was he a good father?" is the first question he decides to ask after their trip to see Harry. "I know you might not remember much, but..."

James smiles and hands him a carton of curry they grabbed on the way to his flat. "I thought so. Or at least now I do. I'm sure back then I thought he was an unfair bastard."

"Aren't all children supposed to think that?"

"I guess." He shrugs and stabs a bit at his food, not eating.

After the fifth stab, he can't keep silent. "What?"

"I shouldn't say anything," James says quickly.

He puts down his own food. "Yes you should."

"You're going to get all silent and not talk to me again," James insists.

He smiles, hoping it is a teasing one. "The semester is almost over. Who says I'll speak to you after?"

"Ha, ha." James leans forward to put his food down on the coffee table. He clasps his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees. "Okay, but I did warn you."

"Warning noted."

"Delilah misses you." James rubs his hands together before clasping them again. "When her mum isn't around, she talks about what she remembers. I haven't told her that I know you."

"How?" he asks.

"They're our cousins, so of course I know them."

He feels as if he can't breathe. He still remembers the day he first held his eldest in his arms. She had been so small in his hands, so fragile. She was, probably still is, completely perfect.

"Why would you tell me this?" he asks and wishes he had something to do with his hands.

"Because all she wants is to see you again." James looks to his watch. "I have another class..."

"Yes, go. But James?" He waited until his nephew looks to him. "Come back after and tell me everything I've missed. _Everything_, understand?"

James smiles. "I can do that."

And, when James returns a few hours later, he keeps to his promise and tells him everything.

* * *

It is James who answers the door when he finally gains enough courage to visit the one place he thought he would never be near. There is a party going on inside, and the temptation to turn around and leave is strong. But he holds his ground, answering James' wide smile with a small one of his own. He hasn't seen his nephew in two weeks now, and he has to admit that this trip is partly to see him.

"Hello," he says. "I suppose everyone is here, then?"

"Now they are." James pulls him inside and points out the coat cupboard before running into the house.

It doesn't take long for the woman he truly came for to come out of the kitchen area, wiping her hands on a towel. She is weary, he can tell, but he also can't blame her; their last interaction had been over a phone and he couldn't say a word.

He steps forward, determined to make this different. "You look good," he says. "I mean, you always did, but it's... hey."

He can see the smile that is threatening to appear, but she keeps it in check. "How did you know this address?"

"I was invited by James. He was in my class."

She hesitates. "The communications professor?" He nods and she sighs, hands resting on her hips. "I was wondering why he took such an interest in a professor."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know until he told me who his dad was."

"And you didn't fail him?"

He flinches at her tone, but he knows he deserves it. "It's been an... enlightening semester."

"Can it be enlightening some other time? We're trying to have a decent holiday party and I don't think you being here will-"

"Please," he interrupts, taking a step closer. "I won't stay long, but I want to see them."

"What makes you think you deserve to?"

"I don't." It hurts to admit it, but he does so without hesitation. "I let so much come between us and I'm sorry, but I want..."

She steps closer, voice soft. "Can you even tell me what you want?"

"I miss you," he says because it's easier and he wants too much. "I miss them."

"You don't even know them."

He feels smaller than he ever felt, standing before the woman that he still loves with everything he's ever had. "I..."

He stands still for a long moment before turning to grab his coat. He isn't sure why he came, or how he thought things would be different. He will apologize to James later, perhaps if he sees him in his office again. Before he can open the cupboard door, her hand reaches out to take his.

He stops and looks down at their clasped hands, unsure what to think.

She pulls him around lightly, wraps his one hand in both of hers, and squeezes once. "You don't get a free pass," she warns. "You have to earn your right back into this family."

For a moment, he isn't sure he can earn anything that has to do with them. But, from the silence of the hallway, a very soft and surprised, "Daddy?" catches his attention. He turns to see his eldest standing there, hand pressing against the now open door frame for what he assumes to be support. She runs to him and he can only think of one thing.

He will give everything he has to be with his family once more. He hopes that, one day, he can be the man who his cousin died thinking he was.


End file.
